Of Straws and Sickbeds
by wetrustno1
Summary: Followup story to "A Bit Not Good". Sherlock is sick and being difficult. John is exhausted and being irritated. However, love will always prevail for the best. In which groceries are demanded, Sherlock is grumpy, and John is a bit of a prick- but in the end, all is as it should be. Johnlock, fluff, sickfic, oneshot.


Oneshot. Followup story to "A Bit Not Good", but can be read on its own as well. Johnlock, sick!fic, established relationship. Warnings for some language and snuggling (though I don't see why that would need a warning). Feedback much appreciated :)

"Still sick, I take it." He stated bluntly, surveying the consulting detective with soft eyes. A wet cough from the doorway served as a response, as Sherlock glared at him with the most hatred he could muster. The look was somewhat weak, as it is considerably harder to channel the energy necessarily to a successful glare when your head feels a good twelve sizes too large and stuffed with cotton wool. This noticeable lapse in energy only reinforced John's notion of residual illness, as Sherlock sniffled into his sleeve and coughed again.

The detective was clutching the duvet from his room around his shoulders, and still visibly shivering in the mid-afternoon air of the flat. John closed his laptop. "This is what you get for not taking care of yourself, you know. You had bloody _pneumonia_, Sherlock- and you've been running around like there's nothing wrong."

Sherlock hacked into a tissue, shoulders trembling, before stumbling over to the sofa and retreating into the far left corner. "That's because there _is_ nothing wrong," He mumbled. " 'm perfectly fine." The last sentence was distorted by another bout of coughing, subsiding to leave Sherlock looking throughly miserable.

John sighed. The detective had been released from the hospital after three days, with explicit instructions to remain at home, in bed, and continue the progression of prescribed antibiotics. Sherlock had agreed with moderate consent, and John had breathed a sigh of relief. However, after two days (in Sherlock's words) "being held against my will", the detective had all but worn away John's patience, and was on the brink of a psychological breakdown. Despite his best attempts to wheedle, plea, threaten, and bribe Sherlock with case files, soup, couch snuggling, and unlimited access to John's laptop (to which Sherlock had just rolled his eyes and informed John that his passwords were entirely too predictable to be considered "security") Sherlock had eventually given up on bed rest, and attempted to continue case work as usual. Unfortunately, it took all of three days in the cold and two nights of soaking the sheets in sweat for Sherlock to realize that bed rest might not be all that bad. So here they were- back in square one. Granted, Sherlock was nowhere near as ill as he had been two weeks ago, but a healthy Sherlock was difficult enough to deal with, let alone one with a blinding chest-cold which apparently rendered him incapable of doing anything besides commanding John to retrieve items from the kitchen.

Two very forceful sneezes rocketed John back to the present, as their creator moaned and curled tighter into a ball on the couch. "This is miserable. I'm bored, John."

John sighed. "Yes, being ill will do that."

There was a pause.

"I'm thirsty, John."

John glanced over at the full glass of water next to the sofa. "You have water."

"It tastes awful. I want juice." As if to emphasize, Sherlock began to cough, body spasming theatrically. Taking the hint, John went to the fridge, retrieved a glass of apple juice, and sat it down next to the detective. Sherlock scowled."I want a straw."

"Excuse me?"

"I want a straw."

John looked up, incredulous. "We don't have any straws, Sherlock, I'm sure you will survive without one."

"But I'm sick. I need a straw. You can buy some at Tesco."

"I'm not going all the way to-"

"I also need cough drops."

Turning back into the sofa, Sherlock curled deeper into his blankets, leaving John with nothing to do but swear loudly and reach for his coat.

Thirty minutes later, John returned with two packs of straws, cough drops, three boxes of tissues, and orange (ONLY orange) popsicles, all of which were deposited in the kitchen. After stashing the groceries in their appropriate places, John moved over to the sofa, ruffling the mess of dark curls that were visible from above the comforter. "I got you your straws."

A hum of response.

"You should go back to bed."

The quilted lump shook its head.

John sighed and smoothed out the blanket. "Yes."

"NO." The lump shook off John's hand and rolled tighter toward the back of the sofa. "Just let me sleep." It mumbled, sounding irritated.

"Alright..." John held up his hands in defeat, starting to feel rather annoyed himself. The blanket coughed, a horrible wheezing sound that made all the hair on John's neck stand up. "Let me just get you your meds and you can sleep."

"Don't need them."

John gritted his teeth. "Sherlock..."

The lump ignored him and suddenly adopted an excellent imitation of being asleep. Resisting the urge to hit something, John struggled to keep his voice even. "You need to keep taking your antibiotics, or we are both going to spend a very long time trapped in this damn flat."

Silence.

"Don't be a child, Sherlock."

No response.

Anger boiling in his stomach, John stomped back to his chair, picked up the laptop and pretended to check his e-mail. The lump continued its impersonation of a couch cushion, and John was privileged to enjoy approximately two minutes of silence before the being on the sofa decided to speak.

"John."

"What, Sherlock?" He could feel his temper rising, and was in no mood to continue babysitting the world's largest six-year-old.

"I'm cold."

John's last thread of patience snapped, and suddenly he could contain it no longer. "Well, that sucks for you, Sherlock, but I'm sure that you can figure out a solution without pestering me. Seeing how you survived for 30 years without me, I'm pretty damn sure you can get yourself another blanket and go the fuck to sleep."

The lump went very silent. Still angry, John returned to his blog post and began typing. A small part of him felt bad, but pent-up irritation was currently overwhelming any feelings of guilt. That is until he glanced over at the sofa and noticed that the lump was trembling, and had somehow compacted itself into an even smaller ball. Yet despite the extra heat, it seemed to be shivering worse than ever. It whimpered softly, and John suddenly felt like a heartless bastard. Slowly, he stood up and made his way to the sofa, sitting down by the lump's feet and taking them in his lap. The lump shuddered and coughed, sitting up in search of more air. John stroked his back, shushing gently as Sherlock continued to cough, eventually letting the detective collapse onto his shoulder. John patted Sherlock's back gently until the coughing subsides, leaving him drained and breathing shallowly. The rise and fall of his chest against John's slowly returned to a more normal pace, leaving John to wordlessly offer the glass of juice (complete with straw) as a peace offering. Sherlock sipped the beverage hesitantly, before setting it back on the coffee table and letting his head drop into John's lap.

" 'm sorry." He muttered, nestling himself into the army doctor rather like a toddler might cling to its mother. "didn't mean to be difficult."

John runs his fingers through the heap of dark curls, chuckling darkly. "It's alright. Sorry for being a prick." There's a mumbled acceptance breathed into John's clavicle, which he takes to mean that all in forgiven.

They sit like that for a moment, silently, before John moves to get up. "Come on," He coaxes. "Let's get you to bed." He gathers up the extra blankets (a massive heap of fabric and discarded afghans and the comforter from Sherlock's bed) and makes his way into the bedroom. Sherlock shuffles in behind him, and promptly folds himself into the burrito of blankets with gusto. Exasperated, John fixes the blankets, but still catches himself smiling as he smooths the fabric around the sleepy detective. Kicking off his shoes, John crawls in behind Sherlock, and after a great deal of thrashing and adjusting and tangled socks mysteriously vanishing into the bedding, he is left with an armful of consulting detective, half spooning, half clutching each other. John runs his fingers through his partner's hair. The bedroom is warm and safe and filled with a drowsy peace seldom found in the outside world, and when they kiss, it is slow and delicious.

" 'love you." John mutters. It's hardly more than a whisper, and Sherlock's eyes have already closed by the time his head hits the pillow, so John's not even sure he heard it. The rain outside is tugging him toward a nap, and John gently squeezes Sherlock's hand before letting his own eyes drift shut.

He's very nearly asleep when his hand is met with another squeeze.

" 'love you too." Says the angel in his arms, and John has never felt luckier.

THE END


End file.
